


A Social Contract

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Community: makinghugospin, Dominant Enjolras, Dominant/Submissive, Humiliation, Id Fic, Kink Meme, Kink Negotiation, Les Miserables Kinkmeme, M/M, Spanking, Submissive Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For the Les Mis kinkmeme prompt: </p><p>  <i>Consensual total power exchange (with safeword in place please!) Dom!Enjolras/sub!Grantaire</i></p><p>  <i>Can be modern AU, everyone's-a-dom-or-sub-AU, canon era, in heaven, whatever.</i></p><p>  <i>Enjolras avoided taking advantage of Grantaire's obvious interest in him because he feels so guilty about his desire to be dominant. Turns out Grantaire is also very into this idea. After a while, they end up in an intense D/s relationship where Grantaire calls Enjolras master all the time, kneels a lot/is often naked if they're alone together, wears a collar full time, has to get permission to come, and does pretty much whatever Enjolras tells him. Enjolras is a caring, attentive, totally adoring dom who takes really good care of him.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Love: Humiliation, service submission, aftercare, facefucking, slapping, spanking, mild to moderate impact play, light bondage, dirty talk, Enjolras casually giving orders, name-calling, boot worship, pretty much everything actually</i></p><p> </p><p>So, yeah. Here be shameless idfic.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the Les Mis kinkmeme prompt: 
> 
> _Consensual total power exchange (with safeword in place please!) Dom!Enjolras/sub!Grantaire_
> 
> _Can be modern AU, everyone's-a-dom-or-sub-AU, canon era, in heaven, whatever._
> 
> _Enjolras avoided taking advantage of Grantaire's obvious interest in him because he feels so guilty about his desire to be dominant. Turns out Grantaire is also very into this idea. After a while, they end up in an intense D/s relationship where Grantaire calls Enjolras master all the time, kneels a lot/is often naked if they're alone together, wears a collar full time, has to get permission to come, and does pretty much whatever Enjolras tells him. Enjolras is a caring, attentive, totally adoring dom who takes really good care of him._
> 
>  
> 
> _Love: Humiliation, service submission, aftercare, facefucking, slapping, spanking, mild to moderate impact play, light bondage, dirty talk, Enjolras casually giving orders, name-calling, boot worship, pretty much everything actually_
> 
>  
> 
> So, yeah. Here be shameless idfic.

“You do not know what you ask.” Enjolras stared past Grantaire, out of his apartment window, into the evening’s dim remnants of light. “Even if you are in earnest—even if you do not trifle, as is your wont…” 

“I am as truthful as Cassandra, and as mistrusted, it seems,” Grantaire said bitterly. “I have told you, I want to serve you. I would be your slave if I could. I want your commands and your chastisements, your reproofs, even your scorn. I would die for a crumb of your praise. I want to fall to my knees every time you enter the room. I want you to slap me if I dare raise my eyes to look you in the face. I want to _please_ you, Enjolras. I want to be punished if I fail, and I want…oh, I would be happy with a smile from you if I should ever succeed, as unlikely as that is. A smile, before you give me your next command. That is all I ask.” 

“Be serious,” Enjolras said, turning away. He looked paler than usual, or was that Grantaire’s imagination? 

“I am being serious,” Grantaire cried. “Do you think I always mock?”

The look on Enjolras’s face, the raised eyebrows and curled lip, answered that question. 

“Well, I don’t,” Grantaire said angrily. “I am in earnest, Enjolras. I would serve you any way I could. However lowly, however humiliatingly. I would like that all the better, in fact—anything to show you…” To show him Grantaire’s devotion. To show him his love, his reverence, his… _worship_ , was the only proper word. 

“Let us be absolutely clear,” Enjolras said, inscrutable as ever. “You wish me to—possess you? To control you?”

“Yes,” Grantaire managed to say. 

Enjolras frowned. “You are my equal, entitled to liberty. What right have I—”

“The right I give you freely,” Grantaire said. “I agree to everything and anything you want to do to me, Enjolras.” 

“You cannot,” Enjolras said. “What if you change your mind afterwards? I would have no right to force you to continue. And yet, that is precisely what you claim you want me to do—to control you even as you protest. No,” he said decisively. “I have done wrong even in listening to you thus far. We must never speak of this again—”

“My protest would not be genuine!” Grantaire was in anguish. He had actually dared speak his heart to Enjolras, and Enjolras had actually listened. To come so close, and to then be denied…no, that was intolerable. He needed to hear Enjolras’s orders. He needed the deep contentment that came from obeying. He needed Enjolras’s hands striking him and soothing him. He needed—

“And how would I know that?” Enjolras demanded. “I could not—”

“We can agree on a signal,” Grantaire said, with a sudden inspiration. “A signal I will use if I want you to stop in earnest, Enjolras.” He grinned. “I will say ‘Robespierre’ if I truly wish to stop.” 

Enjolras did not rise to the bait. “A signal…” He sounded as though he were considering the proposal. Grantaire felt absurdly hopeful. “I suppose it is a form of social contract,” Enjolras said. “An agreement regarding what words mean in a particular setting, and how to communicate genuine dislike, as distinguished from what is merely part of the…game.” 

It was no game to Grantaire. And, from the way Enjolras’s voice dropped on the word ‘game,’ perhaps it was no mere game to him either. 

“A signal would be necessary,” Enjolras said slowly, “but that is not enough. We would also have to speak freely to each other, both during any…activities…and in between them, so I would know what you wish me to do again, and what you felt truly degraded you, or harmed you in any way. I will not treat you as an inferior in earnest, Grantaire. We would need to keep a strict separation between what is part of the game, and what is not.” 

“Very well,” Grantaire said, reluctantly, “but does that mean you agree?” His voice rose several pitches on the last word; he felt as though his life hung on Enjolras’s answer. 

The color rose in Enjolras’s cheeks as he gave a curt nod. 

Grantaire crossed the room in two long strides and sank to his knees before Enjolras. “Thank you,” he said, burying his face in Enjolras’s thigh. After a moment he felt Enjolras’s hand stroking his head, and he felt more content than ever before in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire stared at the floor of his master’s bedroom. He had thought of Enjolras as his master from the beginning of their mutual endeavor, and had been thrilled beyond words when Enjolras had permitted him to call him such. 

The heels of Enjolras’s boots dug into Grantaire’s naked back. Grantaire was on all fours at Enjolras’s feet, serving his master as a footrest while Enjolras read through a pamphlet written by Courfeyrac. He was merely a tool for his master’s pleasure and ease. He was literally beneath the dirt on Enjolras’s boots. He loved it. 

“Rise,” Enjolras commanded absently, after a few moments, removing his feet from Grantaire’s back. “Fetch me a pen from the desk.” 

“Yes, master,” Grantaire said, getting to his feet with some difficulty after having been on all fours for so long. He brought back the pen, kneeling to present it to Enjolras, who took it without looking up from his pamphlet. 

Grantaire stayed kneeling, his head lowered, as he had not been ordered to move. 

The clock on the desk ticked away. After what seemed like hours, Grantaire felt Enjolras’s fingers beneath his chin, tilting his head up. Grantaire kept his eyes lowered respectfully. 

“What a good servant you are,” Enjolras said, stroking Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire leaned into the touch unabashedly. Enjolras always permitted him that small liberty: to press against any stray pat or stroke, like a dog nuzzling its owner’s hand. “Come here,” Enjolras said, opening his arms. 

Grantaire obeyed eagerly. He sank into Enjolras’s lithe embrace. “You have become remarkably skilled at pleasing me. I believe this deserves a reward, don’t you?”

Grantaire’s breath hitched. “I…” 

“Or do you disagree?” Enjolras said, a hint of amusement in his voice. 

“I deserve what you wish to give me,” Grantaire said, hiding his face in Enjolras’s neck. “Only that. Whether it is reward or punishment—whatever pleases you.” 

“It always pleases me to reward someone so dear and so faithful,” Enjolras said in his ear, kissing the skin under his earlobe. “What would you like the reward to be?” 

Grantaire did not need to think twice. “May I kiss your neck, master? And then may I kiss my way down your body, all the way down to your boots?” 

“You may,” Enjolras said, the deep timbre of his voice sending shivers through Grantaire, who began to press soft, reverent kisses to the delicate skin on his master’s neck. He felt his master trail gentle fingers down his back, coming to rest on his buttocks. 

Grantaire began to lick and nip gently as he kissed, taking his time, relishing the feel of Enjolras’s warm, fragile skin beneath his lips, the weight of his master’s hands holding him in place, the sounds of Enjolras’s breath, rising and falling faster with each flick of Grantaire’s tongue. 

He started to work his way down slowly, delighting when he reached the sharp, exquisite collarbone, then pausing for permission above the first button on Enjolras’s shirt. 

“Go on,” Enjolras ordered, sounding slightly breathless. 

Grantaire had not been given permission to use his hands to unbutton the shirt, so he applied his mouth to the task. Enjolras seemed pleased by this rigorous obedience; at any rate, he ran his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, and murmured, “How well you follow instructions, when you are given the proper inspiration for it.”

Enjolras was inspiration enough for anything—even for Grantaire to do something right, it seemed. 

His master’s torso was a marvel, no matter how many times Grantaire had seen it: a glorious blend of wild contradictions, all hard chiseled muscle under girlish skin. Grantaire ran his tongue over a nipple, and smiled with pure joy to hear Enjolras moan. He intensified his efforts, kissing and biting and sucking until Enjolras was covered with pink marks from collarbone to navel. 

By now Grantaire was on his knees between Enjolras’s thighs, his face level with his master’s groin. “No,” Enjolras said, in response to the question that must have showed on Grantaire’s face. “Not yet. Later. Go further down, first.” 

“Yes, master,” Grantaire said, bowing his head. He opened his mouth to ask a question before quickly shutting it: he had not been given permission to speak, nor had he been asked a direct question. 

“Good, very good,” Enjolras said softly, caressing Grantaire’s head. “You remembered.” 

Grantaire also remembered the protocol for asking permission to speak. He pressed his face into Enjolras’s thigh and whimpered, like an animal. Enjolras let him do that for some time, petting his hair without answering his plea, before saying, “Speak.” 

“May I remove your trousers, master?” 

“Yes,” Enjolras said, rising, “but only using your mouth.” 

“Yes, master,” Grantaire said happily. He worked steadily at the trousers with lips, teeth and tongue, the rough fabric chafing his mouth. Finally he managed to pull them down. He had to crawl around Enjolras to do this, so he could pull at all sides of the garment. Enjolras stood there, nearly naked, magnificent despite the fact that his trousers were piled around his ankles, his boots still on. Grantaire began to kiss at his inner thighs, breathing in the scent of the sweat there, then working his way down to the skin behind Enjolras’s knees, down the jutting muscles in the calves, and finally to Enjolras’s boots. 

Grantaire placed a worshipful, almost ceremonial kiss on the toe of each boot before running his tongue over the right boot, tasting dust and leather and mud, lapping at the instep and the heel, pressing his face into the lowest part of his master’s body, accepting that it was infinitely higher than him, and deserving of his humble service. He repeated the ritual with the next boot, almost enjoying the disgust he reflexively felt at the taste of the streets of Paris. 

“May I…” 

Grantaire bit down on the words as soon as they came out, but it was too late. He had spoken without permission. 

There was an awful moment of silence. Grantaire did not dare look up at his master’s face. He stared at Enjolras’s feet instead, and watched in dismay as they stepped back. 

Then he winced as his head was jerked up sharply by the hair. “You know better than that,” Enjolras said, sounding more disappointed than angry. “How do you think I should respond to such a breach of our agreement?” 

“Punish me,” Grantaire said desperately. “Please, I beg of you—”

“I will, but not harshly,” Enjolras said. “You made the misstep of a child, or an animal—a misstep born of lack of self-control.” He pulled his trousers back up, to Grantaire’s chagrin, and sat back down on the bed. He beckoned Grantaire to him. 

Grantaire crawled forward, not daring to rise. Enjolras patted his lap. “You had told me you wished to be spanked, like a boy,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire knew his master was warning him, giving him the opportunity to use their signal and end the game. 

He pressed his face to Enjolras’s thigh again, whimpering like the disobedient dog he was. “Say what is on your mind,” Enjolras ordered. 

“I do wish to be spanked, or punished in whatever other way you see fit,” Grantaire said, hearing the desperation in his own voice. “Please, master. Please don’t hesitate. I need it—I need to be made fit to please you, to be shaped to your will. Please.” 

“Very well,” Enjolras said, after a moment’s silence. He patted his lap once more, and Grantaire rose to drape himself over Enjolras’s knees. 

The first spank was harder than expected. Grantaire yelped, only to feel another, and another. His eyes began to smart, then to tear. 

Enjolras stopped to caress his sore buttocks, and Grantaire was grateful for the respite, but still more grateful when Enjolras struck him again. Grantaire kept count at first, but lost track after the tenth blow. 

At some point he began to sob openly. Enjolras ceased immediately, pulling Grantaire into his arms. "It's over," he murmured, kissing Grantaire's brow. The tenderness simply intensified Grantaire's weeping. Enjolras held him tightly, pressing soothing kisses to the top of his head. "You bore it very well. I am proud of you." 

Grantaire’s sobs subsided into hiccups, then into quiet tears, and finally into stillness. He felt deliciously empty, drained of everything but his desire to serve Enjolras. 

“How are you feeling?” Enjolras said, very quietly. “Are you…well?” 

“Yes,” Grantaire mumbled, wanting to simply rest against his master and enjoy the aftermath of his surrender. 

Enjolras, perceptive as ever, caught on. “We will discuss what we just did in the morning, if you feel able,” he said. “But now, let us go to bed.” 

Grantaire made a soft low noise in the back of his throat. Curling up in Enjolras’s arms and falling asleep there sounded like the next thing to heaven. 

“Or…do you not wish to go to bed?” Enjolras inquired carefully. 

Grantaire badly wanted Enjolras to simply give orders, instead of asking questions, but for all that he was a leader by nature, Enjolras was no tyrant.

A pity, that. He would make such a beautiful despot. The world would throw itself at his feet, and Grantaire would be the first in line. 

“I do,” Grantaire answered. 

Enjolras frowned. “Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice making it a command. "Do not tell me what you think I wish to hear." 

“I want to go to bed,” Grantaire said, obeying without a moment’s thought. “I want to sleep with your arms around me, keeping me by your side.” 

Enjolras tightened his embrace, nuzzling the top of Grantaire’s head. Grantaire gave a satisfied sigh, then followed Enjolras’s touch as his master guided him off his lap and pushed him gently so he was lying on the bed. 

Enjolras undid his boots and shucked off his trousers, but put on a nightshirt. He did not offer one to Grantaire, which made Grantaire preposterously happy and terrified at the same time. He would sleep naked, as befit a slave or an animal, utterly vulnerable and without dignity, while Enjolras remained clothed. Every flaw of his body would be available for inspection: inspection by _Enjolras_ , who was accustomed to his own flawless form. He would submit himself to be judged, and he would inevitably be found wanting, but Enjolras would forgive. Enjolras, whose mind was always on higher things, even at times like these, would not concern himself with the flab and the pouchiness and the broken veins from years of drink. He would see it all, of course, but he would not recoil, and for that Grantaire was humbly grateful. 

Enjolras pulled Grantaire close to him, sending another shock of gratitude through Grantaire. Usually they slept hand in hand, but this time he had indeed been hoping to sleep pressed against his master. Enjolras, it seemed, was willing to oblige. He placed a kiss on Grantaire’s forehead, as if in blessing, and then rested his chin on top of Grantaire’s head. “You are unutterably dear to me,” Enjolras whispered, “and I am honored that you trust me so. Rest, now. You are safe and cared for, I promise you.” 

Grantaire, his face buried in Enjolras’s neck, his legs intertwined with Enjolras’s, his whole body pressed against the firm splendid marble that was his master, believed himself too ecstatic for rest, but the sound of Enjolras’s breathing eventually lulled him to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, when Grantaire awoke, Enjolras had already risen. Grantaire felt bereft for a moment before seeing Enjolras sitting at his desk. 

Enjolras’s back was to him. Grantaire wanted his attention, badly, and he knew he could speak without permission now. But he would wait until it pleased his master to notice that he was awake. 

Grantaire lay still and quiet, while Enjolras’s pen scratched away at the paper before him. But his nose began to tickle, and he could not hold back a sneeze. 

Enjolras turned his head and favored him with a brilliant smile. “Good morning,” he said, coming over to the bed and kissing Grantaire. 

“Good morning, master,” Grantaire said. 

“Get up,” Enjolras said, probably without even noticing his own imperiousness. Grantaire reveled in these casual orders, dispensed without thought or doubt that they would be followed. They reflected Enjolras’s commanding nature, not any conscious intention, and were all the more dominating for that. 

Grantaire got up. Enjolras surveyed his nakedness, and Grantaire blushed, which did not escape Enjolras’s notice. “All that we’ve done together, and you still blush?” Enjolras murmured, reaching up to cup Grantaire’s cheek. 

“Yes,” Grantaire admitted. “You still reduce me to this.” 

“Mmmm,” Enjolras said, with a firm kiss, holding Grantaire’s face in place with his hand. “Get dressed,” he then commanded. “We need to speak, and it is best to do so clothed, I think.” 

Grantaire was not happy about that, but he did as he was bid. When he was dressed and sitting on the bed, Enjolras said, “Did you enjoy that, last night? When I spanked you?” 

“Yes!” Grantaire said shamelessly. “Yes, my beloved—my master—that was all I had hoped for. Yes.” 

Enjolras frowned. “Why? I know,” he said, waving a hand, “you had told me it gave you physical pleasure, that it aroused you, but what I saw last night, Grantaire…it was more than mere lust. It satisfied your feelings, somehow. Why?” 

Grantaire could not answer. Enjolras’s frown deepened. “Surely you know you are the equal of any man, worthy of all honor and respect,” he said. “Why do you feel you deserve debasement?” 

Enjolras put an affectionate arm around Grantaire’s shoulders as he said this, but his brow was beginning to wrinkle, and Grantaire’s heart sank. It sounded like Enjolras’s conscience was starting to object again. He simply had to make Enjolras understand. “What you did—it didn’t make me feel debased,” he said. “It made me feel I was worth something.” 

Grantaire had always felt as if he were worth something around Enjolras, even in the days when Enjolras had seen him only with scornful pity. That feeling of worth, of _purpose_ , had only grown stronger several months ago, when Grantaire had volunteered for a task for Les Amis de l’ABC—insisted upon it, in fact. 

Enjolras had given in, with a flicker of hope in his eyes. And by some miracle, Grantaire actually did what he said he would, putting his commitment to his word over his apathy, his deep-rooted sense that nothing truly mattered. 

Enjolras’s smile when Grantaire had returned had sent a shock of joy through Grantaire, so strong he felt it would kill and resurrect him all at once. 

Enjolras, who had given him a chance with no reason to think he could make good, was more than willing to give him repeated chances after Grantaire had succeeded. He gave Grantaire another task, and then another, until finally there was no more pity in his gaze when he looked at Grantaire, no more cold disdain. 

Which was not to say that they enjoyed perfect peace after that. The pity was replaced by exasperation, the disdain by puzzlement. Grantaire could not help but mock and scoff, and Enjolras could not help but be irritated by him. But the irritation was bearable—indeed, even amusing, especially since it was mixed with respect and a grudging affection. Grantaire took an unholy pleasure in provoking Enjolras into rebuking him, knowing that Enjolras did not truly disdain him, simply enjoying Enjolras’s attention on him, correcting him, making him fit for better things. 

It was after this that Grantaire grew more and more courageous, until he finally admitted the truth of his desires to himself, and then to Enjolras. 

He had never felt so whole, so complete, so purposeful, as when he served Enjolras. 

Grantaire tried, with less than his usual facility with words, to explain some of this now. 

“I see,” Enjolras said, finally. 

“I am grateful that you do this,” Grantaire said miserably, but Enjolras cut him off. 

“There is no need for gratitude.” His voice was quiet, almost ashamed. “I enjoy it. You must have seen that.” 

“Yes,” Grantaire conceded, “but…you could have anyone, Enjolras. You—“ Enjolras could have anyone in Paris falling at his feet, and for him to choose Grantaire instead—

“Do you imagine that I _want_ this with just anyone?” Enjolras demanded. “That I want to tyrannize over someone, anyone, and you are simply the most convenient victim?” 

Grantaire’s face must have provided an answer, because Enjolras shook his head. “I have never wanted to do this with anyone but you,” he said. “I cannot pretend I am proud of this desire, this thirst for conquest, but I have only felt it with you.” His hands traveled up Grantaire’s shoulders, rubbing his neck gently. “I think perhaps it is the trust required,” he said thoughtfully. “That you, of all people, would have this much faith—I must confess, that is…stimulating.” 

Grantaire shivered as Enjolras’s hands trailed over his skin. 

“What else do you want to do, as part of this…game?” Enjolras asked. 

Grantaire looked down, but Enjolras tilted his chin back up, and ordered, “Tell me.” 

“I want you to tie me up,” Grantaire said, naming just one of the dark, furtive fantasies he had conjured up, “and then…fuck me. I want you to fuck me when I’m tied to your bed, master.” 

They had never done that before. Grantaire had taken Enjolras into his mouth, but he had never been fucked by him. 

Enjolras’s face was unreadable. “And would you like to…to _fuck_ me, as well?” 

Grantaire gaped at him. He was not expecting anything like this question. “If that would please you,” he managed. 

“But would you _want_ that?” Enjolras pressed. 

“Yes,” Grantaire confessed, lowering his head. “I would.” 

Enjolras looked away, then back at Grantaire. “I will tie you to the bed now,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “unless you object.” 

Grantaire had no objection at all, and the sooner Enjolras learned to expect that, the happier he would be. He waited in delight as Enjolras pulled off Grantaire’s shirt and trousers, relishing the feeling of Enjolras’s hands tugging roughly at his garments, brushing against his skin. 

Enjolras unwound his cravat. He seized Grantaire’s left wrist and tied it to a bedpost, securely. Grantaire tested the knot, and its strength made him shudder with pleasure. Enjolras fished in his drawer for another cravat and tied the other wrist to the opposite post. Then he took out the bottle of oil Grantaire had brought to him when they had begun this dance. 

“Tell me again,” Enjolras said, his voice suddenly silky, “what you want me to do.” 

“Fuck me,” Grantaire rasped. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Enjolras smiled. “Is that _all_ you want? Right away, with no preparation? I had not thought—“

“No,” Grantaire said hastily. “No, master. Please.” 

“Then tell me exactly what you want,” Enjolras said, the caressing note in his voice growing more pronounced and more frightening. “Be precise,” he said, running a hand down Grantaire’s chest, “and be polite. Beg me for everything you want. Leave nothing out, or else, rest assured, _I_ shall leave it out.” 

Grantaire could barely force the words out, but with an act of will, he managed. “Please, master,” he said, “use the oil and your fingers to open me up for you. Please work me open so I can take you inside me, so I can serve you, so you can _use_ me. And when I’m open please fuck me. Slowly. Please go slowly, though I’ll be begging you later to go harder, but please, master, don’t listen. And, please, tell me I’m…” 

“Tell you that you’re what?” 

“Tell me I’m your whore,” Grantaire whispered. “Tell me I’m your plaything. Your slave. Please. I want to hear you say it, master. I want you to make it true. Please.” 

Enjolras’s face went ashen. He swallowed, his throat working visibly. His hand continued to trail over Grantaire’s body, tantalizingly, sending shivers through Grantaire. 

“Spread your legs,” Enjolras commanded. Grantaire obeyed so quickly it felt like his legs had been jerked apart by Enjolras’s own hands, without Grantaire even willing it. 

Enjolras smiled. “You are very quick to do that,” he said. “Perhaps because you’re accustomed to it, hmmm? Accustomed to spreading your legs for anyone who will bed you? You’re right, Grantaire. You are a whore.” 

Grantaire flinched. 

Enjolras leaned over to whisper in Grantaire’s ear. “You were everyone’s whore, before, but now you are mine alone. You will spread your legs at my command and no other’s. You might feel grateful for this, serving one master instead of chasing after anyone who will have you, but you should not. You will find me more demanding than you have dreamed of.” 

“Please,” said Grantaire, intoxicated with bliss and terror. “Please.” 

“Please _what_?” Enjolras’s voice was sharp, merciless. 

“Please…be _demanding_ , as you say.” Grantaire doubted if it were even possible for Enjolras to be more demanding than Grantaire had dreamed of. His dreams had been fairly extensive. But if it were true, Grantaire would be wild with happiness. 

Enjolras drew back, pulled his shirt and trousers off, and slicked the oil over his fingers. “Wider,” he ordered, pushing at Grantaire’s legs. “Perhaps next time I should tie your ankles as well,” he murmured. 

Grantaire, who by this point was already rock-hard, nearly came at the thought of lying completely immobilized, tied at hand and foot, abjectly helpless to Enjolras’s will. He couldn’t even form the words to beg for it. 

And then he felt Enjolras’s fingers teasing at his opening, gently, almost questioningly, giving Grantaire time to protest, before sliding in, first one, then the next, working away at him without mercy. 

“I am going to enter you now,” Enjolras said, softly, and Grantaire knew it was a warning, an opportunity to signal if he wished to end the game, and he loved Enjolras more dearly than ever in that moment for his wholly unnecessary solicitude. 

The first shock of pain was familiar, the subsequent pleasure equally so. Grantaire was experienced enough that he knew what to expect, but not so much that it did not jar him nevertheless. 

Enjolras’s body was looming over Grantaire, the sculpted chest directly above Grantaire’s eyes. He could see nothing but Enjolras, could smell nothing but the faint hint of soap and sweat on Enjolras’s skin, could feel nothing but Enjolras moving in and out of him, maddeningly slowly and with absolute control, claiming him from the inside out, obliterating everything that was discordant and weak and unworthy in Grantaire with sheer fiery pleasure, making Grantaire his. 

Enjolras began to thrust faster, harder, bending as he did so he could rasp “whore” and “slave” and “mine” savagely into Grantaire’s ear with each thrust, until Grantaire could bear it no more, and came, his release spurting onto Enjolras’s stomach. 

Enjolras came a few moments after, sinking down onto Grantaire, breathing heavily. 

Grantaire could form no thoughts. He was too conquered, too subjugated for any such thing. All he could do was lie there in mindless happiness. 

Enjolras pressed his lips to Grantaire’s neck, a tender kiss that turned into a painful bite. Grantaire moaned. Enjolras’s teeth and tongue kept working away, sure to leave a bruise, a reminder of precisely what Grantaire was. 

“Yours,” Grantaire murmured, tilting his head so his neck was bared to Enjolras, at his master’s disposal for whatever marks Enjolras wished to leave. 

After Enjolras had finished ravishing Grantaire’s neck, he soothed him with soft kisses from jaw to collarbone. “You were so obedient,” Enjolras said, in that startlingly deep voice that never failed to make Grantaire quiver. “So good.” 

Enjolras untied Grantaire’s hands, rubbing his wrists gently, drawing them down next to Grantaire’s body. Grantaire simply lay there, passive, submitting to whatever Enjolras wanted to do. “I treasure this,” Enjolras said, pressing his lips to Grantaire’s chafed wrist. “I treasure your loyalty. Your service.” 

Grantaire closed his eyes, overwhelmed, unable to look Enjolras in the face. 

“I must go now,” Enjolras whispered, after a few minutes, bending down to kiss Grantaire’s mouth fiercely. “I have to meet with Combeferre.” 

Grantaire frowned, in sharp disappointment. He had not thought to lose Enjolras’s company so quickly. Enjolras, sensing his displeasure, said, “Stay here if you wish. I will be home in the afternoon.” 

“Yes, master,” Grantaire said, feeling slightly better. If he could not have Enjolras beside him, he could at least stay in his master’s home, surrounded by the bed linens that bore Enjolras’s scent, the books that carried his ideals, the ideals that only seemed real to Grantaire when Enjolras spoke of them.  
Grantaire fell asleep shortly after Enjolras left. When he woke again, Enjolras had not yet returned. Grantaire suddenly felt restless, and desirous of doing something—anything—to serve Enjolras.

In his desperation, he wound up tidying Enjolras’s room, as if he were a maid, straightening stacks of paper, folding clothes, turning back the bed linens, returning books to their proper shelves. 

When he had done all he could, Grantaire knelt on the floor. He wished to show his devotion, and this was the only way he could think of: to be there, kneeling and naked, when Enjolras arrived home. 

Hours passed. It seemed like years. Grantaire’s thighs began to ache, and his knees screamed in protest. 

When he finally heard the door open, Grantaire thought he must be imagining it. But no, there was Enjolras—there was his master’s lithe, lovely form, the shining hair swinging to his shoulders, the well-cut features twisting with surprise to see Grantaire, bare and on the floor. 

Enjolras crossed the room to where Grantaire knelt, with quick decisive steps. Grantaire kept his eyes on the ground. He felt Enjolras’s hand slide beneath his chin, and the other hand stroked through Grantaire’s hair. “You have stayed here, like this? Since I left?” 

“Nearly since then, yes,” said Grantaire, almost shyly. “Master.” 

“Stand up,” Enjolras commanded, “so I can kiss you.” 

Grantaire stumbled and almost injured himself in his effort to obey as quickly as possible, but his master’s strong arm caught him and prevented him from falling. As soon as he was on his feet, Enjolras’s arm slipped round his waist, and Enjolras kissed him. The kiss felt like a conquest. Grantaire surrendered willingly, defenselessly. Enjolras’s mouth plundered his, but his hands were gentle as he stroked Grantaire’s neck and shoulders, pressing Grantaire’s body to his. 

Grantaire clung to him needily, even more desperately than he had ever before. Oddly, he found himself fighting back tears. Enjolras noticed this. “My leaving you this morning upset you more than I had realized, it seems,” he murmured, holding Grantaire tightly. 

“I—” Perhaps that was true. Grantaire knew he had felt…fearful, insecure. Some part of him had worried he was abandoned. Used, and then forgotten, discarded, unloved. He winced and lowered his eyes, not wishing Enjolras to see the full extent of his abject need. 

Enjolras saw it nevertheless, and did not seem to scorn him for it. “The next time we do this,” Enjolras said, kissing his cheek, “I swear I will not leave you afterwards until you wish me to.” 

Grantaire stifled a laugh. As if he would ever wish for Enjolras to leave. Enjolras saw his expression, and smilingly amended, with another light kiss, “Or until you are ready for me to.” His face turned grave, and he reached upwards to caress Grantaire’s cheek. “But you must tell me if I hurt you in earnest. I would not wish to do that, my dear friend. Will you promise me that?” 

Grantaire nodded quietly. 

Abruptly, Enjolras stepped away. Grantaire could not help but whimper in protest, then cringed: he was not allowed to protest, strictly speaking. But Enjolras did not punish or even reprove him. He simply began to remove his clothes. 

Grantaire bit down on his lip just in time to prevent the question from slipping out, but Enjolras saw it anyway. “I want you to fuck me now,” he said, and the words sounded more majestic than those words had any right to sound from anyone. “Would you like that? Tell me honestly.” 

“I—“ Grantaire’s voice went hoarse. ‘Like’ did not do it justice, nor did even ‘love.’ It would be an honor beyond even his wildest dreams, to have Enjolras trustingly allow him into his body. “Yes,” he managed. “Yes, master. I would love it if you let me fuck you.” 

“Why?” Enjolras asked, sounding slightly scornful, and Grantaire winced. “Do you wish to dominate me in turn, as I have dominated you?”

“No!” Grantaire said. “No, it would be the opposite. It would be another way to serve you, master. Another way to bring you joy, if it would please you.” He hesitated. “I live to please you, master.” 

Enjolras reached up to gently touch Grantaire’s face, as if to compensate for his earlier scorn. “Then come to bed,” he said, and Grantaire scurried to comply.

Grantaire found the bottle of oil in the drawer. He dipped his fingers into it, keeping his eyes on Enjolras, stretched out on the bed, stark naked, his leonine mane draped across the pillow. Beautiful, but with that coiled ferocity that kept Grantaire in awe. 

He came over to the bed, cautiously running a hand down Enjolras’s back. 

“Put your finger inside me,” Enjolras ordered, sounding entirely too sure of himself for someone who was about to be fucked for the first time. 

Grantaire did so, very gently. At Enjolras’s behest he added another, and another. He slid his fingers in and out, slowly and straightforwardly at first, then giving them a twist that made Enjolras’s iron self-control slip, and caused him to let out a delightful moan. 

“I don’t know whether to reward you for that, or punish you,” Enjolras managed, after a moment. 

“Those two notions are closer together for me than you might fully understand,” said Grantaire, smiling. “At least, where you are concerned, they are.” 

Enjolras turned his head, regarding Grantaire over his shoulder. “So I have seen— _oh._ ” He drew a sharp, startled breath, in response to Grantaire’s fingers moving. “Take your fingers out,” he commanded, and after Grantaire obeyed, he asked, “Are you hard?” 

“Yes, master,” said Grantaire, almost laughing. As if he could be otherwise, after this, after seeing Enjolras naked and putting his fingers _inside_ him and being told to _fuck_ him—

“Then fuck me,” Enjolras said, sounding almost bored, as if he were instructing a dog to fetch a thrown stick. “Now.” 

Grantaire slicked himself up with the oil and then slowly, almost reverentially, if that word could be used for such an act, pushed into Enjolras. He moved in and out, alive to every breath Enjolras took, every sound Enjolras made, anything that could be taken as a command or a remark on his service, reminding himself that he was inside Enjolras, that this was an honor he had not dared to hope for, and that he had better not blunder now. 

“Harder,” Enjolras ordered. Grantaire gulped, but followed his master’s instructions, thrusting into him harder and faster. 

Enjolras released with a soft cry, shuddering into the mattress. 

Grantaire pulled out. He was still unspent, but had not been granted permission to come. He lay next to Enjolras and waited for the next order, daring only to touch Enjolras’s hair with a feather-light hand. 

Finally Enjolras opened his eyes to appraise Grantaire. “You are still hard,” he observed. 

“Yes, master,” said Grantaire. 

Enjolras studied him for a moment before saying, “Bring yourself to release, but keep your eyes on mine the whole time. I want to watch you.” 

Grantaire flushed. He was certain his face was an unattractive shade of purple, but he kept his eyes level with Enjolras’s as he worked himself over. 

Enjolras’s eyes were steady, unflinching. Grantaire felt his own eyes lowering in shame and submission, but forced them upwards. As he drew nearer, it became more difficult. He broke the eye contact again, and again, and felt a jolt of fear that Enjolras would be displeased. 

But Enjolras only grasped Grantaire’s chin, holding it up firmly, so that Grantaire had no choice but to look Enjolras in the face. The gesture was curiously intimate and wonderfully possessive. Grantaire spent a few short moments after, the pervasive sense of Enjolras’s control driving him over the edge. 

“So good,” Enjolras said, pulling Grantaire close. His arms encircled Grantaire, who felt blessedly enveloped in Enjolras’s warmth. Grantaire felt rather than heard Enjolras’s murmuring as he kissed the top of Grantaire’s head again and again. “So trusting, so faithful.” He paused, then added, “We were right, to try this…game. I am glad you persuaded me.” 

Grantaire nuzzled his master’s neck, curling up like a pet in his arms, and happily fell fast asleep.


End file.
